Action is Eloquence
by Imogen74
Summary: The Holmes brothers believe that they have one another all figured out. When they are told otherwise, a wager ensues, and Molly Hooper is caught in the middle. Eventually things progress to a point where Mycroft attempts to play matchmaker, and a sort of "Cyrano de Bergerac" story emerges. Sherlolly with Mollcroft as endgame.
1. Chapter 1

Action is eloquence

The symphony was a place Mycroft enjoyed. Sometimes.

Yet he sat there, listening to Mozart, and he couldn't fathom what he was doing there. He shifted in his seat, and wondered what he was going to do to get himself out of this situation.

Mycroft had only agreed to such idiocy when he could be doing other things because his brother asked him to keep this ludicrous man whom he was with occupied. He needed to start to tell his brother no. Sherlock would need to find other people to do his babysitting, case or no.

The musicians ceased their play, they all stood and bowed, and the man to Mycroft Holmes's left rose and applauded. Well, they weren't good as all _that_. But he rose as well, and smiled a touch at the symphony players.

He and his companion left the hall, and Mycroft walked toward his large, black car. "Well, Mr. Danvers," he began.

"Paul," supplied Mr. Danvers.

Mycroft nodded. "Paul. I was very happy that we were able to do this. Sherlock was unfortunate in his missing this opportunity."

"Indeed," and Paul smirked.

Mycroft looked at him crookedly. "Yes, well…" and he got into the car.

"I'd be happy to have a repeat performance," Paul began. "Or anything else you might fancy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well…that is to say…"

"Are you suggesting that this was a date?" Mycroft sniggered and looked at him incredulously. "My dear Mr. Danvers, if that is the case, you are very much mistaken. It is my brother you are thinking of…" and he lowered himself into the car.

"Sherlock isn't gay," observed Paul, the now jilted date.

"Isn't he? Well, since _you _say so, it must be true," and he closed the door. "Baker Street," he barked at his driver. Whatever Sherlock was up to, he needed to put a stop to it immediately.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was mucking about in his kitchen. He had a time trying to locate things now that John was gone. No matter…he would have it all deciphered soon enough. If only soon enough would happen already. It had been nearly a year.

He heard the front door close and the familiar footfalls of his brother.

Wonderful. He was likely cross that he had set him up on a date that Mycroft didn't know he was on.

It was just a laugh.

That, and his brother was lonesome.

"Hello, Mycroft," and he looked at him. "You look out of sorts."

Mycroft twirled his umbrella and sat on the chair. "Now, why would you think that, Sherlock? Could it be that you set me up on a date without telling me?"

"You need to get out more."

"How can you presume to know what I need?"

"By virtue of my observational acumen," and Sherlock sat down.

Mycroft smirked. "Oh yes, of course. Sherlock, if your 'observational acumen' is as polished as you seem to think it is, why would you have set me up with another man?"

"Well, I should think that obvious."

"You mean to say that you think that I am homosexual."

"That's right."

Mycroft laughed. "Sherlock, how long have you known me?"

"Well, as I am currently thirty eight years old, and you are…however old you are…thirty eight years is a safe estimate."

"Precisely. And yet you believe me to be homosexual."

Sherlock looked at him crookedly. "Well, you are."

"I am not."

"You are."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother and shook his head.

Sherlock stood. "How can this be? Obviously you are gay. Look at you!"

"I rather think that you are imposing your own tendencies on me, Sherlock. It's a mistake most people with a pedestrian understanding make."

This was not to be born. "Are you saying that you think that I am gay."

"Come, man. What do you call all that business with John Watson?"

"We were friends," and he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

"Oh, of course," sarcasm was dripping with every word.

"Mycroft, you don't do sarcasm well, I suggest you abandon it," he called from the kitchen.

"I shall do no such thing. I shall not abandon that which affords me pleasure."

"Which is why I sent you to the symphony with Paul," and he retuned, two cups in hand.

"And very thoughtful, brother, except I am not gay," he sipped his tea.

"You are a ridiculous person, Mycroft. I don't care if you are gay."

"Nor do I care that you are," and he sat back, set his tea down, and smiled.

Sherlock looked at him. "What do you say…" he began. "To a wager…"

"Wager?"

"That's right. To prove that I am not gay, I shall date a woman. And since you are homosexual, you will find yourself a strapping man."

Mycroft sighed. "This is ridiculous, even for you, Sherlock."

"Why is it? Nervous?"

"Hardly," he laughed. "But since I am not gay, shall I find a woman to date as well?"

"There you have it," and he nodded and sipped his tea.

"Have you any idea what to _do_ with a woman, Sherlock?"

"Have you, Mycroft?"

"Touche," he replied. "It has been a while, I suppose. But not so long as to forget altogether."

"Never is quite a long while, brother."

"But my concern stands. Have you ever dated a woman…?"

"I have."

"When not involved with a case?"

Ah. Well…not so much, no. "That is immaterial."

"Well, you've answered my question," and he stood. "How will I prove my successful completion of this date?"

"Photos? Since you won't be enjoying success," Sherlock added in a whisper.

"That, brother, is creepy and odd…no…something else…"

"Mmm…can't think of anything that cannot be falsified."

"Photos can be falsified, Sherlock," Mycroft swung his coat over his shoulders.

"Well, have at it, Mycroft and we will come up with some sort of proof."

Mycroft smiled at his brother. "Prepare to lose, brother mine."

"I never lose," he returned, and the elder Holmes left 221B in a swoop.

Well, this should be interesting. Mycroft really ought to just admit that he is gay and save everyone the trouble. But he does enjoy being stubborn, so he didn't reckon that there would be any cause for him to be forthright.

His loss.

And Sherlock could be complacent when he won, which would be reward in itself.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Sorry about the delay! I hit a block. Thanks to Amythe3lder for helping out!_

* * *

It was preposterous in the extreme that he should be bothered at all with his brother's silly assumptions. Not that he was _bothered_ in the traditional sense of being bothered, but he was irked.

Mycroft walked into his flat with these thoughts and smiled. He would need to obtain a date. That, too, was odd. How long had it been since he had had a proper date…? Mycroft looked up to his ceiling and considered. He took off his impressive overcoat and sat with his phone.

"James? Hello, yes, its Mr. Holmes. When was the last time your people saw to my ceilings? I daresay a year's worth of dust is up there," and he hung up.

…how long how long…? Since uni, perhaps? No, surely not that long. He went through his life from uni to this point…there had been a few ladies, but a serious date? Well, that diplomat from France, she was someone he had romanced…Sophie, was it? Gabrielle? Some common enough French name.

Mycroft thought of the ladies among his acquaintance. There was Anthea…so young, though. He believed she was otherwise engaged, anyway. She was often seen preparing herself for what could only be a date after work.

Who else? No one on Parliament would be acceptable. To date one of them…inadvisable.

Mycroft rose and went to his window overlooking London's bustling streets.

He thought more pointedly, but no one came to mind. He _could _go to a pub and try to meet someone. He considered it. Yes, that's likely what he would need to do.

* * *

The pack of cigarettes were sitting on the table next to his laptop. Chiding, ridiculous things…he would not cave (he wasn't even certain why he continued to have them in his possession). Sherlock stood, ignoring nicotine's seductive call, and picked up his violin. Whom should he ask out on a date?

There was Janine. Though admittedly, he had rather mucked things up with her.

The Woman…but it would be tiresome to attempt to find her. God knows where she was (though she wouldn't be that difficult to find, he'd rather not waste his time in such pursuits, not when there was a brother to be bested).

Molly Hooper…and he considered. Sherlock walked into the kitchen to make some tea. He cared about Molly, and he knew that she cared about him (bit too much, actually). He believed that his care would never grow beyond the superficial, that is, her general well-being. No…Molly was pure, not to be touched. He had done enough damage where she was concerned. Besides, John would have a fit if he asked Molly out.

Sherlock poured the tea and opened his laptop. He began searching dating sites.

What were these morons on about? _This _was the dating pool? No wonder the human race was in grave peril…those reproducing had the intelligence of a dust mite. His face contorted as he read further on.

No…this wouldn't do.

A pub it is.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes had very discerning taste. He liked this as he did, just so. When selecting a pub to discover the lady he would be asking out on a date, he was careful to make certain that it held a bit of anonymity, was classy nonetheless, and had an outside area wherein he might be able to smoke should the need arise. Central London would do, as he thought it appropriate for any traveling he or his future companion might need to make.

"Harp" in Covent Garden was selected, and Mycroft was pleased. It had favorable reviews to boast, and was not pronounced in its proximity to anything of importance.

He walked in, umbrella in hand, and sat at the bar.

"What'll it be?" asked the keep.

"What have you on tap?"

The keep went through the beer on draft, and Mycroft decided on a whiskey on the rocks. So much for a night out full of novel adventure.

Mycroft sipped his drink and looked about. The place wasn't terribly dim for a pub, and there was loads of dark wood. Mycroft stood and went over to a booth in the back. He sat and decided to people watch for a spell…

…in walked Sherlock. This would be interesting.

His younger brother went to the bar and spoke with the tender, looked around, spotted Mycroft almost immediately, and rolled his eyes. After obtaining his drink, he went over to the booth.

"Well, brother. Fancy seeing you here," he said, sitting opposite him.

"Place must be going to the dogs…the clientele it now attracts," Mycroft responded with a smirk and a sip.

Sherlock chuckled. "Any interesting prospects?"

"None at all. But it is early still. Most aren't quite done with the workday yet," he paused. "But a workday might not be something you are familiar with. Allow me to explain, one gets up in the morning, usually seven, perhaps a touch later or earlier depending on one's commute and where one needs to be…"

"Shut up Mycroft. _My_ workday never ends, since criminals do not sleep, when I am on a case, neither do I."

"Rubbish. Of course they sleep. What are you on about?" he sipped his whiskey.

Sherlock, undeterred, persisted. "Criminals have networks, as you are well aware, and said networks are constantly in operation. Therefore, if one is to effectively catch a criminal, one must keep their hours."

Mycroft smirked at his brother's insistent manner, then spotted a lovely woman enter the pub, unattended. "There you are, Sherlock. Why not have a go at her?"

He turned to the entrance to see whom his brother was referring to. She was a lovely woman, early to mid thirties, long, auburn hair…smartly dressed. Some sort of barrister he surmised, by the look of her briefcase and the style of dress she wore. "Hm. I suppose it couldn't hurt to have a trial run," and he adjusted his Belstaff, ruffled his hair, and rose to his feet. "Watch and learn, brother mine," he said with a wink.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose as he received Sherlock's wink, but fell into a smile as he watched him speak with the lady…

The lady, Mycroft observed, was happy to accept Sherlock's smile and presence. And it appeared he offered to purchase a drink for her, which she readily accepted, too. She was all smiles as they sat at the bar, and seemed engaged enough in conversation. She touched her hair, laughed, even blushed once or twice…

But then Mycroft watched as her face suddenly seemed less warm and eager…her eyes narrowed a touch. Her lips began to thin as she listened to Sherlock. Finally, after a few minutes thus, she took her drink and threw it in his face.

Ah. He wasn't surprised.

The lady left and Mycroft smiled as the keep handed Sherlock a towel to dry himself with. The younger Holmes left the bar and returned to the booth where his brother sat, smiling widely.

"Well, that was marvelous. I learned that lovely, unassuming professional women dislike being deduced at pubs, and will react accordingly should anyone discover that they are engaged and their own fiancee is having an affair," he downed his whiskey. "Am I close?"

"Spot on," muttered Sherlock.

"Well…take heart, Sherlock. You really ought to learn that simply because you _can_ read people with ease, doesn't mean that you should _tell them_ such. Really…you are a bit old to still be learning this lesson."

Sherlock sat back in the booth. "You have learned this, Mycroft? This is your age and wisdom speaking?"

"Indeed it is. What else?"

"If you are so adept at understanding people, why are you still alone?"

He smirked. "_Because_ I understand people."

And Sherlock grinned. "Let's see you," and he turned, surveying the available pool of victims. "Ah, there. Over there, at the end of the bar. Lovely woman, probably forty. _She_ appears to be a fine specimen," and he turned to Mycroft. "Well, have at it."

"Challenge accepted," he stood and left Sherlock at the booth.

Sherlock switched to Mycroft's side to get a view of the goings on without having to crane his neck…

This lady, with short, black hair and a pale face, looked to be a bit despondent. Perfect for Mycroft, thought he. She was dressed in back, appeared to be a writer, or a PA or something. She didn't receive Mycroft well at first, seemed a bit taken aback; but she softened as he sat next to her, and she accepted his offer of drink.

Mycroft was doing much of the talking, the lady nodding a lot…Sherlock believed that this didn't bode well for his brother, he disliked being the one who spoke all the time. But on he went, and the lady nodded, smiled when appropriate, but appeared to want to be left alone. Finally, he watched as she shook her head no, as Mycroft's face fell a touch, and she got up to leave.

Well. That wasn't a disaster, but it didn't look like it went terribly well.

Mycroft returned to the table.

"And…?"

He sat down. "Not interested."

"Why ever not?" though he appeared to be moderately pleased.

"Because she is homosexual. And, she added, quite tired."

"Ah. That does pose a problem," Sherlock got up and went to the bar for two more drinks. He returned and slid in the booth. "You know, Mycroft, dating, I imagine, is much more difficult than I expected it to be. And that doesn't happen often."

"Yes," Mycroft sat back. "Many variables and such to consider. I suppose…it might be easier to simply ask someone we already know."

"But who?"

"No idea," he whispered, taking a long gulp of whiskey. "At any rate, Sherlock, I think it's about time for me to head home. Will you stay and observe the masses attempt to mate?"

He shrugged his answer as Mycroft got up.

"Well, do let me know if you've found success," and he left.

Confounding problem. A date. Sherlock's mind raced…who to ask who to ask…this really shouldn't be as difficult as he was making it out to be.

He'd ask John's opinion on the matter. He pretended to know women fairly well…perhaps he might offer some insight into this ridiculous predicament he found himself in.

And he stood, shoved his hands into his pockets, and left the pub for London's night.


	3. Chapter 3

Let it not be said that Sherlock Holmes is not amenable. In fact, he is. Quite. But only when that which he seeks is in complete alignment with what his mind tells him is fact.

He thought it an excellent opportunity to ask John Watson his advice on dating opportunities. He certainly had dated enough.

Whether he was successful or not in that endeavor remained to be seen…Mary Watson _wa__s_ an assassin, though only incidentally so.

It mattered but little, he required some insight, and John was likely the only person save Mycroft he would bother with at all…and since Mycroft was by reason not available for consult, John it was.

"Sherlock?" he heard his very best friend's voice in the doorway.

"Ah, John. Do come in," and he gestured for John to take a seat, but only after he handed him a cuppa.

"What's…going on?" and the good doctor eyed the cup with some uncertainty.

"I require some advice, and since you are the only person whom I know who could offer some on this most tedious of subjects, I asked you here today," Sherlock sat and smiled at his friend.

"Me?" he was dubious, to say the least.

"That's right," and he sipped.

"But…how can I…what do I know…?"

Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh and stood in annoyance. "Since your powers of observation have improved slightly during our acquaintance, I'm certain that it hasn't escaped your notice that you have replied to every single one of my statements with a question. Surely you can appreciate how annoying that is for me, I answer too may questions as it is, mostly for morons who don't understand my answers."

"You are a git," and he set his tea down.

Sherlock laughed and sat down again. "I need you to enthrall me with your acumen, John. Truly, I am in a fix."

"Jesus. Whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing is wrong! But Mycroft…"

"Oh, no," John said standing. "No no no. I am not getting involved with anything that Mycroft is concerned with," his hands gesticulating.

"Sit down man, and allow me to explain," he eyes held John's, and he obliged.

"Good. Now, Mycroft and I have this bet, you see. He believes, rather erroneously, that I am homosexual…"

"Well," and John giggled.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, that is…not too far fetched, is it?"

"Why is that?"

"I mean…you haven't been known to court many women recreationally. Have sex…that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing is that, John? When I engage in lascivious acts, ludicrous lies, all in an effort to chase an orgasm…_that_ will prove me to be heterosexual?"

"No," John said. "It'll prove you to be a human being. But god, you do like to make it ugly, don't you? Love isn't like that, you know. I mean…of course you know," he paused, looking at him deliberately. He then pointed at the detective. "You think you're untouchable, but you are the most sentimental…"

"Retract that immediately."

_"__The most sentimental_ bugger I've ever laid eyes on."

"Humph," retorted he, and stood with his arms rather tightly crossed around his chest.

There was a very loud silence which followed.

John was standing, but decided to take his seat. "Well? Are you going to finish your story, or are you going to pout?"

"Two _more_ questions, John."

"Alright, I'm done," and he went to leave.

"Please stay."

"Excuse me?"

"Stay…I'll…"

"Behave yourself?"

Sherlock went over to his regular chair and sat down. "You're no fun."

John sighed and sat opposite the detective.

Sherlock took a very deep breath and said, "I need dating advice."

No answer.

He clapped his hands together. "I need dating advice, since the pub scene is…well…less than opportune."

"You went to a pub to look for a date?'

"So?"

And then the laughter began. "Oh! Sherlock! Next time…_please_ invite me!"

"Shut up," he was irritated. "Look, if you aren't willing to help…"

"No no. Just give me…" and he put his hands on his face. "Oh god, I wish I could've seen their reaction!"

"Not pleasant."

"No," and the laughter ebbed a bit. "No…so, what sort of advice do you need?"

He cleared his throat. "Well, Mycroft and I were thinking…it's probably best at this juncture to ask out women we already know. You know, sort of a practice round. Since it's been so long for either of us," and he sat back and crossed his legs.

"Whom among our acquaintance would be daft enough to go on a date with you?"

"Just so."

John rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I dunno, Sherlock…this seems like an abysmally bad idea."

"Well…there are only a few women I personally know who would qualify as datable, anyway."

John's eyebrows rose in question.

"There's Sally Donovan, but she hates me."

"Yeah. That's an impossibly bad idea."

"There's Janine…but she hates me as well…"

"Well, she might do, if you offer her something in return."

"There's the Woman."

"No," John simply said. "No way, no."

Sherlock smiled. "There _is_ Molly."

"I knew you'd mention Molly," and John shook his head and lowered his gaze.

"How did you know I'd mention Molly?"

"Well, she is the obvious choice, isn't she?"

"How do you figure?"

"Oh come _on_ Sherlock! She's been an indispensable friend to you for ages! She is closer to you than anyone, really, save myself. She isn't bad on the eyes…quite lovely, actually…she is unattached, and, oh yeah. She's been crushing on you forever. There's that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If she knew me as well as you claimed, she would not be _crushing_ on me. Where do you get these pat phrases?"

"Why not? Bad self image problems, Sherlock?"

He cleared his throat and got up.

"No…" John began. "No…not really…."

"What?" Sherlock called from the kitchen. Why did he plant that suggestive seed in John's mind? He was always, _always_ doing things like that.

And before he knew it, he was turning into the doctor…"John! Where did you come from?"

"The sitting room, Sherlock," but he was looking at him with a hint of concern.

"Stop looking at me like that," and he went to retrieve his violin.

"Sherlock? Is that why you never asked a woman out? Because you didn't think that anyone could…like you in that way?"

"How about I pen a message to you and send it in study hall?"

"I'm serious!"

"As am I! Look. I made a slip. I am not stunted in any emotional manner. I'm simply, as I said, out of practice. I need to win this bet so that Mycroft can cease his incessant superiority in all things, and we can go on as before and I can be left alone…my sexuality is all too often called into question. It's tiresome, and I wish to end it," he finished, and began to play his violin.

"Alright, alright," John held his hands up in mock surrender. "Look…if you want to ask Molly Hooper out, I'm not going to stop you…but only after you hear me out."

Sherlock put his violin down and sighed, then raised his gaze to John. "Yes?"

"Molly cares about you. A lot. She cares so much that she has risked almost everything for you. If you ask her out, if you give her false hope that anything romantic could happen between the two of you, I swear to god Sherlock Holmes, I'll kill you myself. Ask her out, but tell her the truth. Tell her that you are trying to win a bet…"

"But that defeats the purpose, doesn't it?'

"Which is?"

"To _prove_ that Mycroft is wrong, and that I am heterosexual. I don't give one whit whether anyone else believes me, or what they think about my sexuality. But Mycroft. He's so impossibly smug. It's really not to be borne. He needs to be silenced on the matter," Sherlock sat once more.

"Fine. Fine! Ask her out! But so help me god…"

"I know I know," he replied, rolling his eyes. "You'll kill me with your bare hands."

John's breath slowly sifted through his teeth. "That's right, Sherlock. And I hope that you don't forget it," and with that, he left.

* * *

Molly Hooper was a very smart woman. Smarter than most, actually. She was accomplished in her field, held some respect from her peers and even her mentors. She was pretty, though not in the most traditional of senses; a bit waif-ish, bit small…but her soft expression and her awkwardness made up for anything anyone could deem lacking in spades.

She had a very good sense of humor, though occasionally off-kilter.

She had opinions which she was more than capable of expressing, though sometimes accompanied by a stammer.

She was faithful and true to a fault, the kindest, most gentle of people one could ever hope to meet. This was why two things couldn't reconcile these last traits which were so utterly Molly:

Thing one: she broke up with her perfectly nice and respectable fiancee, Tom.

Thing two: she seemed to have an undiminished and unaccountable thing for Sherlock Holmes.

Neither of these things jived with what people generally thought of when they reflected on Molly Hooper.

Many thought it was just a phase…a school girl crush run amok; one which destroyed her desirable relationship with Tom.

Many thought it was a character defect…she must be a glutton for punishment to be hopelessly attracted to such a great git.

Some even thought that she was mentally unhinged…no one in their right mind would continue to fantasize about such a jerk as one Sherlock Holmes. No one would break up with Tom for such a feeble reason.

And no one, for the life of them, could recall what that reason was.

Some had even speculated that she was being paid by the detective to be friendly to him. Though Molly's wardrobe was atrocious, and the detective wealthy, so that theory soon fell to the wayside.

But whatever it was, people at St. Bart's often speculated about these perplexing goings-on.

It happened that one day, one day following Molly's epiphany that she was, in fact, worth more than what the detective offered her (this had begun following his shocking return from the "dead"), that she was in the lab at Bart's, mixing chemicals in an effort to ascertain the presence of a particular acid in a homicide case.

"Hello, Molly," waltzed in the detective, Belstaff swinging, curls bouncing, teeth sparkling in his over wide smile.

Hmm…must be something particular for him to put on such a show. "Hi Sherlock."

"So…what are you working on?"

"Why?"

"Because. I'm curious."

"Why." And now she looked at him. He had an odd look about his face…somewhat confident, but something else…

"Because, we share similar taste in our interests."

"Do we?" and she turned back to the work.

"Indeed, yes," he cleared his throat. "In fact, I have been ruminating lately on just how much we have in common, Molly…and how much I actually like you."

Oh no. "Ok?"

"Right. And I have come to the conclusion that there are precious few people among my acquaintance whom I would care to spend time with apart from you," he paused. "And John."

"Uh-huh," now she was looking at him fully. He was nervous, she could tell. His brow was furrowed ever so slightly.

"So, the logical course of events…"

Oh my god.

"…all things considered…"

Molly put the instrument down and took hold of the table.

"…would suggest that I take you to dinner," he finished.

And Molly Hooper swayed a touch, and sat down on the stool…

She closed her eyes.

"Fuck off, Sherlock."


	4. Chapter 4

"I could be wrong…though that is extremely unlikely, but I think that that is not the usual way one accepts an invitation to dinner."

Molly scowled at him. "No. It isn't. But since I'm not accepting your invitation, it is perfectly acceptable," and Molly stood and began fidgeting with gadgets and such.

"Molly…none of those are your preferred instruments," Sherlock observed.

"Get out," she breathed.

"Why? What have I done? I hardly think inviting you to dinner is a reason for such behavior."

"No?" her voice rose. "No…? Well. What about the fact that you know that I fancy you? What about the fact that you always use me, so why would this be any different, except that now you are quite obviously playing upon my emotions? What do you want with me, Sherlock? What is it now?"

He cleared his throat. "Well, Molly…it's only that…" he paused. Best come clean. She is in a state. "It's that…you know. Mycroft. He is a git."

Her eyebrows rose in question.

"Right. Well…he thinks," he laughed, indicating that what he was about to relate was funny, and she should laugh, too. "He thinks that I am homosexual."

Nothing.

"So…" his eyes went wide. "So, I need to convince him he is wrong."

"Is he?"

"Molly! Do be serious."

"What? What's wrong with being homosexual?" she cocked a brow and smirked a touch.

"Nothing! But…as I'm not, and as Mycroft is especially annoying, I need to take this opportunity to…"

"Use me?" she supplied.

"Molly. Do be sensible. There simply isn't a question of my using anybody," Sherlock replied, a bit put out.

"Oh _no_?" Molly breathed. "Maybe not to you, but to me, it's constantly a question."

"Molly…" he said, attempting to mollify…

"Don't speak to me," she said stiffly. "If you're quite finished here, I have things to see to."

"Don't you think that are you overreacting…?" Sherlock began, but Molly Hooper had left the lab, and he was standing there, quite at a loss as to what had just transpired.

Well. That certainly wasn't the reaction he was expecting.

He cleared his throat and left the lab, in quite a state.

* * *

What did she mean by it? How could she refuse him thus? There was no indication that she had ceased being interested in him in that capacity.

Perhaps John might offer some insight, and he cringe. _John Watson offering insight on something that he didn't understand…_

This was not to be born!

Dejected, defeated, and undone by Molly's refusal, Sherlock went back to Baker Street, his head a bit heavier (at least judging by how he held it)…

He looked at the knocker…blast. Mycroft.

He made his way up the stairs, bit more slowly than per usual.

"Judging by your pace up the stairs, I'd say someone just turned you down," and Mycroft handed him a cup of tea.

"Dreadful," Sherlock replied, sipping.

"Woman?" and he sat.

He nodded.

"Best just go for John, Sherlock."

"Funny, Mycroft," and he sat opposite him. "What of your failures?"

The elder Holmes cleared his throat. "What makes you say I have any failures to report?"

"Your lapel."

"I beg your pardon?" he set the cup next to him.

"You've had a cinnamon pastry for breakfast. If you had been at all successful in your attempts, you would have had fruit."

Mycroft cocked a brow. "I asked our representative to Brazil."

"Because…?"

"Have you been to Brazil?"

"Mmm. I see," Sherlock sat back.

"Just so."

"And what of your rejection, brother dear?"

Sherlock looked at him steadily. He honestly had no desire to indulge his brother in his attempt, but decided to anyway. No point in hiding it…"Molly Hooper doesn't seem to trust me."

"You asked the pathologist?"

"Yes," replied he, a bit defensively.

Mycroft laughed. "Oh, I would have liked to have seen that exchange."

"What?" Sherlock got up and went to the kitchen, retrieving some biscuits from the shelf.

And Mycroft stood. "Sherlock, don't you use her dreadfully?"

"No!"

"Mmm," he rocked on his heels, smiling at him.

"Mycroft, haven't you got something else to do? I'm fairly certain there are some babies which could use a good scare. Why don't you go and smile at them?" he went and turned on his laptop and munched on a biscuit.

"Oh, Sherlock, don't you know _anything_ about women? They dislike being maltreated. Much the way you dislike being wrong."

"I wouldn't know anything about that," he said to the screen.

"Well, count that among much you know nothing about."

At this, he turned to Mycroft. "Really, brother, I've had a day. Can't you go home to your depressing flat and leave me in peace? I have work to complete."

"Google won't tell you how to convince Molly to go out with you," he swung is coat on.

"I don't need _Google's _advice, Mycroft."

He laughed. "Goodnight, Sherlock. Good luck to you."

"Infuriating man," he muttered, as he punched in…_How to recover and receive an affirmative response to a disastrous initial asking out. _Nope. Useless self-help rubbish. _How to ask out a woman you are friends…_he paused. Was she a friend? Yes. …_friends with…_

_Look for signals that she likes you._

_Find out what her interests are._

_Make her a CD._

_Wait for the right moment._

_Be clear._

Make her a CD? They weren't in secondary school! What rubbish.

But then, he thought…there might be something to all of this.

* * *

"I dunno. What do you think, Meena? He's a nutter, right?"

"I can't believe that you're honestly just figuring this out," replied Meena.

"It's called have love goggles on," said Molly defensively. "He has a fantastic mind."

"If that's what you like," she shrugged. "It's better if the bloke has a nice arse, in my opinion."

"Meena!"

"What?"

"He has a nice arse," muttered Molly, and they laughed.

"Look, Molly, if he's a right git, why bother? He only causes you heartache."

"He is now. He only asked me because he and his brother have some sort of bet or something."

"He has a brother?" her friend was wide-eyed.

"What?"

"Well, there's more of him…"

Molly laughed again. "Well, yeah…but Mycroft isn't really like Sherlock."

"That's a blessing."

"I don't know him all that well, but he's…a bit more…well…I guess he has better social graces or something."

"My dishwasher has better social graces than Sherlock Holmes."

Molly laughed hard at this.

"I mean," she continued. "It does my bloody dishes, and not a word of complaint. It just cleans them, dries them, and there. Clean dishes and no backtalk."

"You have a point."

"Of course I do!" exclaimed Meena.

Molly looked away and thought about for a minute. Her friend did have a point…"I should go," she downed her drink.

"Next week?"

"Mmmhmm," and she left a few pounds and left.

Molly kicked at some pebbles on the walk. She was generally a very happy, pleasant sort of person. She disliked being disagreeable. She wanted to be nice.

But Sherlock made it so difficult! He was always taking advantage of her good nature, her willingness to help.

Her fancy for him.

It was most infuriating that he knew she liked him and he exploited it so willfully.

She opened the door to her flat, threw her keys on the table and sighed. Molly Hooper, you are better than how you are treated.

Keep telling yourself that, she thought…you might just start to believe it.

But she was. She was better than that. She was better than the smug and short replies he offered her. She was better than the way in which he used her so blatantly for lab access. She wasn't stupid!

She wasn't, and she brewed some tea.

Her phone rang out a receipt of text.

_Molly, I am sorry I behaved so poorly. I should have been more aware of your feelings._

What.

How on earth should she reposed to that?

She worried her lip and considered.

She could ignore it…he _was_ a right git. She could respond and admonish him for his behavior, telling him that she would prefer to keep their relationship professional.

Molly tapped the side of her cup with her finger, considering.

_Look, Sherlock. I appreciate your apology. I imagine you don't offer them often, but I'm simply not interested in your suggestion. It's rather insulting, really._

Send.

There. What an arse.

Molly flipped the telly on and sat with her tea.

It had been a long day…Mr. Holyoak and his seizures. Mrs. Allen and her liver. Mr. Kelly and his kidneys…

_I never meant to insult you, Molly. Truly. It was an effort to illustrate that I think of you as a desirable woman, and if that was something which concerned me, I would certainly pursue a…er…relationship romantic in nature with you._

Molly Hooper stared at the screen. What? How was she supposed to respond to _this? _He would pursue a romantic relationship with her? He was toying with her, plain and simple, and she wouldn't be a party to it.

What's more, was what did it matter if he would? He never would, he wanted her to prove a point for him, end of story. And he was willing to risk her heart!

She angrily turned the telly off and decided to go to bed. What was the point of staying up any longer?

Molly got up, and leaving her phone on the coffee table, went to change for bed.

She laid down, and stared at the ceiling angrily. She couldn't erase the texts from her mind…

…and two hours later, she was still right pissed.

Frazzled and exhausted, she went to retrieve her phone…

He hadn't texted.

She dialed his number.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock."

"Molly…?"

"Yes, that's right. Why are you doing this?"

"Because…" he began.

"Don't hand me that rubbish about Mycroft. You could ask any number of women. Why are you doing this to me?"

She heard him fidgeting. "Well, truth be known, I have a certain level of comfort with you. I suppose that I don't usually enjoy that sort of ease around most people."

"Oh," was her reply.

"Yes."

"Well…alright then."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'll go on a date with you," and she paused. "When?"

"Erm…well…today is Thursday….what about Saturday?"

"Saturday," she repeated. "Text me the time and such tomorrow. Good night Sherlock."

"Good morning, Molly," and he hung up the phone.

Molly checked the time…it was two am.

She smiled and went back to bed.

* * *

And some blocks away, Sherlock Holmes was smiling. He hadn't lied to Molly, no. He had been truthful.

Mostly.

Well, he reasoned, she wanted another explanation other than the stuff about Mycroft.

But that was, when it was said and done, the real motive behind his behavior.

* * *

_A/N: sorry for the delay in updating this! I'll try to get more on a weekly track with this. Thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following!_


	5. Chapter 5

Get up. Bathe. Get dressed. Make tea. Eat a breakfast. Work. Work. Work. Home. Port. Bed. Repeat.

Such was the daily life of one Mycroft Holmes.

Inspiring, he believed, in some sick, twisted way. He had never planned on doing much with his life, not really.

He was intent on being _important_. He was that. He was determined to be professional. That he was, as well.

What he had never truly bargained for was any type of sentimentality getting in the way of his work, and he was equally determined not to allow that.

His little bet with Sherlock notwithstanding, he would not be touched in such a way. Not at all.

Mycroft was sitting as his desk in his home office, the dark wood adorning much of the room, adding a bit of formality to the dwelling, which suited him just fine. Mycroft _was_ formal. He preferred it that way. To add any frivolity to his life was indeed, ridiculous. He didn't require any distraction from the work.

But Sherlock was tiresome, and that fact fueled his desire to partake in this little game of his. He would play, yes, and he would win.

What he was winning, he couldn't rightly say…

…oh yes. The satisfaction that he was right.

A look of complacency betook his countenance, and he sat back, pleased. He would be quite happy to set Sherlock right.

He just required a date.

Mycroft rose from his desk, and, deciding to have a walk, swung his coat on and left.

Where he was going, exactly, wasn't immediately clear. Mycroft often found that getting out and stretching his legs provided much-needed opportunity to think independent of any hindrance of a chair. Chairs. Irksome things, really.

He strode down to the cafe (which he truly loathed, and couldn't be bothered with such trivia) and ordered a tea.

"Mycroft?" came a voice.

He turned. It was Molly Hooper. "Miss Hooper…?" he looked at her quizzically a moment.

"Hi," Molly was suddenly painfully aware of the situation that Sherlock had put her in, and was exceedingly uncomfortable. Best to just go with it, pretend as though everything was fine. "So…on your way to work, then?" It was then that she took note of the time. Blast! Not everyone began work at four pm…not the way Molly did, anyway.

"No, actually," he began. "No…just out for some air and refreshment. Home office was a bit stuffy. Often I require a constitutional to set me to right," he smiled a bit and ordered a tea.

Molly nodded. Should she continue to stand here…? Should she excuse herself…? "So…um…"

"Are you on your way to work, Miss Hooper?" he asked, sipping his tea.

"Yeah. Yes, I mean…" _why_ was she so uncomfortable? "I mean…yes. I'm on my way to work."

Mycroft smiled. "Well, since we are going the same way, why don't I accompany you?"

"Oh…um…" she swallowed. What would be more suspicious? Accepting his offer or insisting that she go alone…? Hang on…there's nothing suspicious in this at all. Just because she is trying to help Sherlock win a bet…that doesn't mean that she can't talk with the opposing….person? Hang it. "Alright," she smiled.

Sometimes she really hated Sherlock.

No…most of the time.

Most of the time when she wasn't harboring a dreadful crush.

Mycroft smiled and they began to walk together. He could tell by her behavior that she was aware of the bet between his brother and himself. "No need to be uncomfortable, Miss Hooper."

"Molly."

"Thank you," he paused. "Molly. I know that Sherlock has asked you out, and that you are aware of the bet which exists between us."

"What?! I…"

"Do not insult either my or your own intellect by carrying on thus, Molly. Sherlock is painfully transparent," and he looked upward reflectively. "How many suitable ladies are amongst his acquaintance? Not many, I'd wager," he scoffed at his inadvertent wordplay. "Therefore, that left you, and perhaps one or two more ladies, since he had already announced that he wouldn't be attempting to meet anyone new."

Molly swallowed. Shit. "Alright. But you really can't tell Sherlock. I think that he's already nervous."

"Indeed?" he looked at her.

"Well, in his own way," she smiled. "I mean…Sherlock cares about your opinion of him."

"Does he?" Mycroft smirked.

"Of course…" she assumed that talking about this wasn't news to someone as astute as Mycroft. "But, you know…I'm just helping him out."

"Have you discussed what would need to happen in order for him to prove his heterosexuality?"

Molly's pace slowed and her eyes went wide…surely Mycroft Holmes wasn't suggesting…no. He wouldn't be so untoward. "Um, well…no."

"May I suggest something?"

"Ok," Molly replied apprehensively.

"Don't do it."

Now she stopped. "What?"

"Don't do it," and Mycroft stopped and turned to look at her.

"But I already told him…" she protested.

"Tell Sherlock you changed your mind. Simple."

"Why? What do you know?" she stood in front of him, looking cross.

"Nothing more than you, I assure you…however, this is a mucked up situation, Molly. Knowing as I do that you have…feelings," he paused for some effect. "…for him, I'm afraid that things might not end in a pleasing way for you. My brother is such that he will never seek out romance, and I'd hate to see you hurt."

Molly's anger brimmed inside. "I see right through you, Mr. Holmes. You're doing this so that you can ensure you winning the bet. I'm not going to _sleep_ with him or anything! But this might be my only chance to ever spend time with him in this way, and I'm not going to just give it up because _you_ think that my feelings might get hurt. I understand perfectly well the risks, and I'm willing to make them. I don't have any false hope. I know what I'm getting into," her chin was high, and her diatribe effective.

Mycroft was duly impressed. "Well, Molly. Do accept my apologies. You are no young girl, and I rather thought that that was what I was dealing with. I was very, very wrong. I might offer a warning to my brother, instead," he smiled. "On that note, I think I'll head back. More work, you know. And there is your charge, anyway," he nodded, indicating that Molly look behind her.

She was at Bart's.

"Oh…thanks," she muttered. "I…I am sorry for losing my temper. It doesn't happen often."

"No? It seemed a seasoned response to me," he smiled. "Good afternoon, Miss Hooper," and Mycroft turned and left her.

Molly watched him go a moment, then headed inside.

What was she doing, anyway?

* * *

"I told you, John…it couldn't have been her. She didn't have a purple blouse."

"I still don't understand," he went to the kitchen.

"Which is why I am the detective," and he sat down at the laptop.

"Tea?" John asked, shaking his head.

"Mmmm…" he replied.

John Watson prepared the tea and came back into the sitting area with two cups. "What are you researching? Seventy three uses for a football?"

"Don't be absurd."

"Oh, but forty nine different tobaccos is totally normal," he sat.

"Two hundred and forty three," he muttered. "And no. I'm looking for a suitable place to take my date."

At this, John nearly spat out his tea. "Date?" he coughed.

"Just so," Sherlock replied, sipping.

"Who is the unlucky victim?"

"You needn't be rude, you know."

"Sherlock, you are taking some poor soul out for a date to prove to your brother that you aren't gay. How much more rude can a person get, really?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Oh, I dunno, John. Misleading unsuspecting women into having sex just so you can chase that elusive orgasm? _That_, to me, is much more nefarious."

John's mouth hung open. "Well. That's just…that's not…I mean…"

"Spit it out man."

He shook his head. "Come on, Sherlock. You know what I mean. Every girl at a pub who goes home with a bloke knows that there isn't a very good chance of…well…"

"Exactly. And I've been upfront with Molly. She knows precisely…"

"Hang on. Stop right there. Molly."

Sherlock swallowed. He hadn't meant to be so blunt about it. He stood and went to the kitchen to refill his cup which was pretty full anyway.

"Sherlock…I thought that you said you weren't going to involve Molly in this," he said accusatorially.

"Molly knows what's going on," and he came back in, avoiding eye contact.

"Yes, but…you know that she has…she has…_feelings_ for you!"

Sherlock winced.

"Look. You can't do this. Molly is too sweet for you to get her mixed up in your sordid bet with your brother," he breathed deeply. "And just how is this supposed to prove that you are heterosexual, anyway? Molly is doing this as a favor, no doubt," his eyes grew large. "Sherlock…" he began. "You aren't about to…to…"

He looked at John. "What are you…?" and realization fell upon him. "No!" he said, disgusted. "Absolutely not! What do you take me for?"

"Well…that's one way, isn't it?"

"John Watson, I am appalled. I am merely going to wine and dine Miss Hooper and then have her over to tea, with Mycroft present as well, and then the two of them can discuss my abilities as a boyfriend," he paused. "For a woman."

"Sherlock, are you sure you aren't gay?"

"Of course I'm sure. Why?"

"Because this has all of the markings of a man desperate to prove to everyone that he isn't gay, when in actuality he is, and this is the ironic way in which he both discovers it and comes out of the closet," John smirked and began to leave.

"Shut up, John. Go home to Mary."

He heard him leave and watched as he walked down Baker Street.

For a very short while, back before uni, Sherlock _had_ thought that he was homosexual. But he quickly realized that it wasn't just girls which disinterested him…all relationships of the romantic sort did. He wasn't asexual…no. He had had some encounters with prostitutes (all female) enough to know that he had that drive.

It was merely subdued in him.

He didn't _need _to be aroused in the same way as others. He was intellectually aroused, and that was, really, all he required.

He certainly cared about Molly…he cared about a few people…though he seriously doubted that he would ever become romantically involved with anyone.

He laughed and sat.

Molly must understand. Apart from John, she likely understood him the most. The best.

Which meant that he should understand her in turn…

He looked at the restaurants online once more. Nothing too romantic, no…What would Molly Hooper enjoy?

Something simple.

But perhaps not so simple as fish and chips…it should be indicative of him putting some thought into this.

Then something caught his eye. _Stockpot._ Good, budget, 1960s decor.

Sherlock didn't know if Molly liked the 60s, but that was neither here nor there. He knew she wouldn't appreciate something fancy. Knew that she wouldn't feel comfortable if he spent a lot of money…

This place was perfect.

He took out his mobile to text Molly the particulars…and then it hit him.

He should pick her up.

Blast!

He ran his hand through his hair and began to type.

_I'll pick you up at 6 tomorrow. Casual dining. _

Send.

There. Nothing too terrible in that….

Sherlock smiled. He was going to be winning this bet, easily.


	6. Chapter 6

She was in a bit of a state, though she wore it well. It wasn't as though she had never been on a date with a friend. She had. Quite a few times.

It wasn't as though she was expecting anything to happen…that is…Sherlock would suddenly decide that he was in love with her.

Though a girl can dream, can't she?

Yes. She can dream.

So Molly readied herself, and imagined dancing with Sherlock Holmes in a smallish garden after having enjoyed a lovely meal, and she smiled.

_"__Molly…how could I have been so blind…all this time you were right in front of me?" he whispered in her ear._

_"__You can be rather slow," she returned._

_"__Forgive me, dearest. I shall never overlook you again…you are my only help for salvation…I am lost without you…"_

_"__Oh, Sherlock, don't be so sentimental…" _

_And he leaned in…_

The sound of her buzzer jarred her from her reverie. Good thing. She was getting a bit carried away.

Molly opened the door to find a smiling Sherlock. "Hi. Right on time."

He nodded. "You look lovely, Molly."

She blushed a bit. "Thank you."

He stood aside to allow her passage.

And they left her flat. "Where are we going?"

"Well," Sherlock began. "I had planned originally to take you to a performance of some sort, but then decided on dining."

"Oh. Alright," Molly honestly had no idea how to respond to this. No matter…

They arrived at Stockpot, and Molly was beaming. "I've wanted to try this!" as they sat at their table.

Sherlock smiled and ordered their drinks. "So, Molly. I've been thinking about how to prove to my brother that I am heterosexual…"

Molly cleared her throat. "Look, Sherlock. It's ok if you're gay. It really is…"

He rolled his eyes. "I _know_ that Molly. And if I was, I'd be forthcoming. As it is, I'm not. I'm tired of the constant implications. The innuendo from both my brother and John. The internet…"

"The internet?" she sipped her wine.

"Have you heard of Tumblr?"

"I think so…" her eyes squinted in concentration, trying to recall.

"Well. Evidently most people on that site believes me to be homosexual. They write stories…draw pictures…"

"How adorable!"

His brow raised at her.

"Well," Molly continued. "I mean…it's flattering now, isn't it. People think so much of you that they pair you off, write stories…I mean…if they did that for _me_…"

"They do," and Sherlock looked at the menu.

"What."

"They do. We have been described in various situations of a sexual nature several hundred times, I'd venture. What looks good to you?" he looked at her, indicating the menu.

She was blushing. "So…people are talking about me? Writing stories…?"

"Flattering, isn't it?" he smiled.

Molly cleared her throat. "I'm a celebrity?"

"Well, Molly…that might be stretching it a touch. But to some people, yes. I'd say that's fair."

She laughed uncomfortably. "Have you read them?"

"John has. Now, Molly. About Mycroft…"

"_John_ has? Oh my god," she covered her face in her hands. "This is awful. I had no idea…"

"Do you live in a cave? Now, regarding Mycroft…"

She slammed the menu down. "_How_ can you talk about Mycroft when people write about you and I shagging in various situations? This is intolerable."

"Awful, intolerable. Yes, any number of adjectives will do. Imagine _my_ disgust. But it really isn't worth your trouble. _I_ certainly don't allow it to consume me. Mycroft, on the other hand…"

Molly laughed. "Well, since you don't allow it to bother you, then I suppose it's fine. What about Mycroft?"

"I didn't mean it that way, Molly."

"Tell me Sherlock, which way did you mean it? That I'm being dramatic? That since I'm alone, it shouldn't bother me?"

He heaved a sigh and sat back. "No."

She crossed her arms in front of her in irritation.

Wonderful.

First he uses her, then he insults her. How much more should she suffer?

No more. The answer was no more.

Molly got up. "Look. I'll go and tell Mycroft whatever you want right now. And then I'm done. I'm done, Sherlock. I can't take it anymore."

"Molly…do sit down," he pleaded.

"No," she walked away toward the coat check.

Sherlock left twenty pounds on the table and went after her.

How dreadful this evening was turning out to be…he honestly hadn't meant to insult her, and here he was, insulting her.

Again.

He really had a propensity for ruining things with this woman…

"Molly!" he called after her, Belstaff swinging, collar upturned, and his pace quickening to keep up.

…and Molly just wanted to get to 221B and be done with this ridiculous man. Tell Mycroft Holmes whatever she needed to say to get Sherlock out of her life.

"Molly…" and he grabbed her arm, pulling her into an alley.

"Let go," she growled through gritted teeth attempting to free her arm.

He pulled her further into the alley.

"Let go of me now, I mean it…" she did. It may have seemed ridiculous at that point, of all the things this man had done and said to her, it was but a trifle.

But every person has a breaking point.

And Molly had reached hers.

She was on a fake date, with the man she had loved from afar for years, doing _him_ a favor, and he treats her like shit.

Nope. She needed to be done.

And she wrenched her arm free at last. "You can't keep _doing_ this to me, Sherlock! I'm here to help you, and you insult me! That isn't the way to treat someone who is trying to help. But then, you have never treated me the way I deserve. I guess tonight is no different, no matter how much I wanted it to be," tears were streaming down her face. She was shaking.

"You're right."

"I…what?"

"You are completely right, Molly. And I'm…"

Her eyebrows raised. "What?"

"I'm an arse. I'm sorry…believing that you should understand that about me isn't a justifiable excuse."

Molly swallowed. "It isn't."

"No."

She sighed. "No," and she then noticed just how close he was…she could feel his breath on her face…"Sherlock?"

…but he didn't answer.

He was kissing her…and she was kissing him back…

He had a hand on her back, pulling her close…the other was on her neck…and he opened her mouth.

Molly moaned softly…it had been some time since Tom…

He pressed against her, and her back was at the wall…her hands made their way up his chest toward his head, and she pulled him closer…

He was a better kisser than she had imagined…

And he ended it, pulling away. "Molly…I…"

She was suddenly self conscious. "It's alright, Sherlock. It was a heated moment. Let's go and meet Mycroft. Is he there yet?"

"I'm not certain. But Molly…you must know that I hadn't planned on…"

"Hush up. Let's go," and she turned away from him in the alleyway.

They walked in silence to his flat.

And they entered. "He is here," he said to her, as she walked in.

"Well, Sherlock. Miss Hooper," Mycroft was standing in the middle of the sitting room, sipping his tea. "How was dinner?" and he sat.

Mycroft gave them both a quick glance…what a rogue. "I trust everything was to your liking?"

"Molly," she replied, correcting his address. "And I'm starving."

"Ah. Well, Sherlock. Your date didn't care for the fare? Strike one."

"She left before we could order…"

"Strike two," ticked off Mycroft.

"…how does Chinese sound, Molly?" he handed her a menu.

"Delightful, but I really must get going," she smiled at him.

"Strike three. Well, there you have it, brother mine. Molly disliked the restaurant. Disliked your company so much that she a) left before even an order could be placed, and b) detests your company to such a degree that she couldn't be bothered hanging about for a meal. Even after you kissed her," he sipped again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Molly is fatigued, Mycroft," he spat. But there was a hint of doubt there. Was his kiss that awful…? "Are you quite certain that you cannot stay?"

"Erm…well…" she looked at the menu. Lo Mein sounded good. And she didn't want things to be completely spoiled with Sherlock. She merely wanted some time to think things over.

* * *

An hour later the trio were eating and laughing in the sitting room. Molly was pleased that she'd stayed. "I cannot believe that he'd do such a thing, Mycroft! Your brother blew the lab up on purpose?"

"He did. He was cross and decided that every last person must pay."

"Mycroft is jealous that he never did anything so nefarious in his silly life."

"Setting a university lab on fire is hardly nefarious, Sherlock. Stupid, yes. Narcissistic, certainly…"

"I am no narcissist."

"You are, rather," Molly supplied.

He appeared to be scandalized. "I'm not! I am a sociopath!"

"And you know what they say about self diagnosed ailments, Sherlock?" Mycroft posed.

"Don't you say it…"

"First indication of a narcissist."

Molly laughed. "Well," she clapped her hands. "Now I must go. It was lovely," she put her coat on. "Thank you, Sherlock. It was…well. It was an interesting date," she smiled at him, and went to the door. Then she turned. "I believe that he is heterosexual, Mycroft. But I think that in some undetermined amount of time, we should take it under review," and with that, she left.

Sherlock's eyes had grown wide. He swallowed. "Well, there you have it, brother. Heterosexual."

There was a grin painted on Mycroft's visage. "Oh, yes. Definitively,"

"What?"

"Without a doubt, there you have it."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you are on about. You wanted me to go on a date with a woman, I did. Therefore, the bet is mine,"

"You kissed her," his gaze hadn't left Sherlock.

"So? Isn't that further proof?"

"You muddled her thinking, causing her to become confused."

"Oh for god's sake," and he stood. "If I hadn't kissed her, you would have claimed that I should have to prove myself," he was pointing at him.

"Sherlock, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you have absolutely no idea who you are or what you want," and now Mycroft rose.

"I beg your pardon."

"No I don't think I'll give it to you. You are a ridiculous man," he put his coat on. "You are utterly lost and completely pig headed. I don't give a damn about your sexuality. But you had better. It will spell your ruin if you're not careful," and he left.

And Sherlock Holmes stood there, mouth agape.

What did he mean by it all?

He shook his head in confusion.

Mycroft truly was the most infuriating man he had ever known…

…and he went to bed for the first time in a week.

And thought of a dark alley at night…and smiled.

* * *

_A/N: Look! I finally updated! I really hope to __finish this in the next month...there are probably 5 chapters left. Thank you for reading and for any comments you make! I love to read your thoughts._


	7. Chapter 7

Let it be known that Molly Hooper was no pushover. She was no doormat, despite her sweet nature. She was kind, to be sure. Accommodating, yes…

But she was a person, who had needs.

And she needed to get over Sherlock. His kiss had effected her too much, and she had had quite a few dreams in the aftermath.

Though she wasn't certain just how to go about doing that.

She had attempted to forget him in the lab, and then he would turn up with a flounce. It also didn't help that he was being particularly nice to her.

She had attempted to forget him in the canteen, but then Mira would start talking about her boyfriend and Molly's mind would wander.

She had attempted to forget him in the morgue, but his name came up in conversation so often that it was damn near impossible to try.

And forget the flat. Molly's reverie certainly wouldn't allow _that._

_Bridesmaids_ it was, then.

Comedies were the only thing that really, honestly gave her mind some reprieve. She was able to laugh, and that was a mercy.

It was about two weeks since their date, and Molly had just rented another romcom…_He's Just Not That Into You_.

Yeah. Maybe not the best choice, considering.

Her phone rang out a receipt of text…

_Hello, Molly. _

Sherlock.

Molly swallowed. _Hi._

Send.

He was responding…

_I would like to retry our date, if that is agreeable to you._

Molly stared at the screen. **What**. He wanted to retry their date? But he had….

Surely not.

_Why would you want to do that, Sherlock? I think that it was perfectly clear that things were decidedly not good. And since your aim was seen to…what's the point?_

Send.

…and he was responding to that…

_Well, yes. But Mycroft is irritating. And it was my fault that you ended up with lo mein and not something a bit more…more._

Was he admitting fault? It was likely that he was just using her to get at Mycroft again…

_I don't think that's wise, Sherlock. Maybe you need to find someone else._

Send.

And another arrived…

_Molly. This isn't about proving anything to Mycroft. Well, that is, not really. It's about righting a wrong._

Molly stared at the text in disbelief. There was no possible way that he was doing this without some ulterior motive.

_Sherlock, look. Please stop bothering me about this. I simply cannot continue like this. I mean to forget the whole thing._

Send.

_I'm coming over._

WHAT.

Molly jumped from her sofa and began dialing his number…"Pick up pick up…" he wasn't answering.

What an enormous git. What an impossible situation!

Molly scanned her flat quickly and picked a few things up. She smoothed out her clothes and went to the kitchen. "What an arse," she observed, emptying the dishwasher. "What does he mean by it, anyway? Coming over here…" she muttered. "Not _now_ Toby!" the tabby was rubbing against her calves. "He really is such a prat. I mean, he is the worst of people! He uses, he's selfish…unfeeling…"

The bell rang out.

"Blast," she muttered. "I must have some sort of condition to be such a glutton for punishment, Toby. I should go back into counseling," and she buzzed him in, and propped open the door.

And in walked Sherlock Holmes. "Hello, Molly."

"You already said that," she replied. "In your text," she looked at the sofa where her phone was discarded.

He nodded. "Look, Molly…" he dropped his gaze to the floor and folded his hands behind his back. "I'm really quite awful at this sort of thing…"

"Mm. Yes. I know it," and she defensively crossed her arms in front of her.

"Right. Right," he cleared his throat. "The truth is, is I mean to set things to right. It won't do to continue on like this. I feel…" he scrunched his face in pain, as though admitting to feeling anything only yielded discomfort. "…as though I've made a right mess, and if nothing else can be salvaged, perhaps we can at the very least make amends to fix our working relationship."

Her arms fell to her side, her mouth agape. "Is there no end to your selfishness? Have I not conducted myself in a most professional manner? How can you stand there, saying the things that you are saying to me…and then expect me to agree to anything that you suggest?"

"Molly…" his tone was insulting.

"Shut up! You don't get to speak to me! You are the most impossible, the most infuriating, hateful person I've ever known! Over and over again I _do_ this to myself! No more!" and tears streamed down her face.

There was look on his face which betrayed something like regret. He swallowed, appeared to be considering…"I never meant to hurt you, Molly…despite what you may be thinking, or have thought…I am the worst of people and do not deserve your forgiveness," and he began to walk toward her. "However…though I am undeserving, I hope that you would find it in your heart to forgive me. I am impossible, yes, and I do not understand why anyone would ever agree to befriend me…"

Molly sighed. She rolled her eyes. "Well, that's a bit much, wouldn't you say?"

"Is it?" he was terribly close now.

She swallowed. "I should think so, yes."

"Molly…" he whispered.

And though she couldn't say how it happened, he was kissing her again. And Molly was returning it…she wrapped her arms around his neck, and he placed his hands on her waist, pulled her closer.

But Molly ended it, pulling away from him. "Stop it. You need to leave."

Sherlock's breath was heavy. "Leave?"

"Yes. You need to leave."

He nodded…he turned…

And he left.

And Molly rubbed her face with her hands and went to bed.

* * *

Though many may think that Sherlock's motives were utterly selfish, that isn't entirely the case.

Well, mostly.

They were, in fact, pretty damn selfish…but understanding his character, even a little, one might understand.

He was walking, hands stuffed in his Belstaff, collar upturned, at a brisk pace, just after leaving Molly's flat.

And the truth was, he had no idea what was happening to him.

He had never, not once, denied that Molly meant something to him. He had agreed, rather easily for him, that she did. Her and John, Mrs. Hudson…and even Mycroft to a greater or lesser degree, were the people whom he felt closest to.

But something had happened when he had kissed Molly in that alley on their disastrous date. And he couldn't account for it.

He was distracted, that was the biggest thing.

Not distracted in that he couldn't stop thinking about the kiss, per se. More that he couldn't stop thinking that he had done wrong by her.

So his kissing her again was very likely not good.

He decided _not_ to tell John about this.

Or Mycroft, if he could help it.

But as he approached 221 Baker Street, he noticed the door knocker and damned his brother to hell.

Slowly he made his way upstairs, and dreading the onslaught of questions, prepared himself to be irritated.

"Your speed of walk will do nothing to stave off my interrogation, brother mine."

His eyes closed as though in pain. He took a steadying breath, and went inside. "Mycroft," he nodded.

"Evening, Sherlock. When will you shop next? Your pantry is pathetic."

"I never shop. Ask Mrs. Hudson," and he took off his coat and scarf, then went into the kitchen to obtain some tea.

"It is a pity, Sherlock, that you divide your chores amongst those unfortunate enough to claim a friendship of sorts with you."

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I'm here for a few reasons," he sat. "Firstly, I had a date with Anthea. Secondly, I am calling off the bet."

"Off?" and Sherlock sat down in this chair opposite.

"Yes. As I sat there across from a stunningly lovely woman, I realized just how absurd these goings on were. I could honestly care less about your sexuality, nor do I care what you think of mine."

Sherlock sat back in his chair. "Mm. Yes. How noble of you, Mycroft. How silly of me to continue on in this manner. How fortunate for Molly, to be spared any further advance on my part," he smirked.

Mycroft remained stoic.

"Tell me. How was your date with Anthea?"

"Fine."

"Yes. And what did she say when you asked her?"

"Well, I should think that she agreed, seeing as how I had dinner with her," he crossed his legs and folded his hands on his lap.

"You miss my meaning. Was she surprised?"

"I am not here to report every utterance…."

"Oh, but you are! That is the nature of the bet!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "It did not go well."

Sherlock smiled. "Would she be willing to vouch for your sexuality?"

"No," he softly replied. "I think not."

"Poor Mycroft. Well, you have your point. It matters but little what our sexuality is. But I can now safely claim that I am heterosexual without you constantly questioning my assertion."

"So it would seem."

"What?" his tone was not of a questioning nature.

"Well…you appear a bit out of sorts, Sherlock. Tell me, did you visit Miss Hooper this evening?"

There it was…"I did."

"And?"

"And nothing. She is displeased with me, and I was merely attempting to assuage her displeasure."

Mycroft uncrossed his legs. "I see."

"See what?"

"Here's the thing, Sherlock. You are wretched when you attempt to explain anything in terms of feeling. And I believe that you _feel_ things for Miss Hooper…don't give me that look…and I think that, perhaps, you need another person to filter it for you."

Sherlock stood abruptly. "I do not _feel_ anything for Molly Hooper! I simply…" he ran his hand through his hair. "I simply do not wish for her to feel anger toward me."

"I can help you," he smiled.

"No. _You_, Mycroft? You cannot even have a successful dinner with someone and set questions regarding your sexuality to rest. What are you thinking?"

Mycroft stood. "I am much more eloquent when it comes to language, Sherlock. You must admit that. And I can set the pathologist at ease, if you wish it," he put his coat on.

Sherlock desperately wanted to laugh. "What on earth can you say to her on my behalf?"

"That you fancy her," and he left.

* * *

Mycroft strode up to the black car and stepped inside. He could, he was certain, win the young Miss Hooper for his brother. And he wouldn't mind it.

Their bet was a silly business, and this was a much more worthwhile endeavor. He could craft his language to suit a lady (which he wasn't completely foreign to, anyway), and aid his brother to boot.

He watched the lights of London's night speed by.

Mycroft thought that by doing this he could help two lost souls find one another, and he would benefit from it as well. The conversation with Anthea was disastrous to put it mildly.

He knew he was better than that particular attempt.

He arrived at his flat and hopped from the car and into his building.

Mycroft poured himself some brandy and looked out of his window in the sitting room.

He was dexterous with language…he could certainly fill in the gaps set by his brother's less able tongue.

And if if was being honest, he knew that he could benefit from this as well. He could practice his wooing, or at the very least, observe what mistakes his brother makes.

But he would be delicate. He had a feeling that Molly Hooper had been ill used on more than one occasion.

Being the object of Sherlock's dating scheme certainly didn't help matters.

Mycroft could be delicate…

He smiled.

He had a feeling that this would be turning out well for everyone involved.

* * *

_A/N: So...I've been putting this off for a while, as I __haven't known exactly where to take this. I had some ideas, but when I actually started writing this, it dawned on me. **Cyrano de Bergerac!** I did another fic for another fandom some time ago based loosely on this play, and I had such fun with it! Now, this means, of course, that this will be a bit longer, but I think that it will turn out well. _

_I am also determined NOT to make Sherlock into an ass. I do happen to ship Sherlolly (fear not, this **is** Mollcroft), so if you're looking for a fic wherein Sherlock is an asshole, you'll need to look elsewhere. So while this will be loosely based on Cyrano henceforth, the basis will continue to be loose even regarding the characters. _

_Thank you so much for your reviews, for following and for reading!_


	8. Chapter 8

The clock was ticking in Mycroft's office. This, in and of itself, was unremarkable.

However, because he was attempting to sit and write an apology letter for Molly Hooper, it was an infuriating noise.

Apologizing for Sherlock.

Though the letter was to be _from_ Sherlock.

He was trying to determine just how much groveling he should exercise. Should he gush, and flatter her? Should he be more practical and offer subtle compliments?

He rather thought the latter.

Miss Hooper was fairly practical herself…save her atrocious taste in attire. Though that might be attributed to a frugal nature, and so she went to thrift shops for her shopping.

Mycroft was not a wordsmith, exactly.

But he had a certain way with words.

He twirled his pen between his fingers and sighed.

Well, he should turn in. Sherlock was in no rush, no matter how much he should be.

Mycroft folded the paper and went to bed, not considering anything in particular, his mind racing.

* * *

Molly was running into Bart's basement…she had tarried too long with the _Times_, and was late as a result. She hoped that no one would notice, but that would be assuming to the point of absurdity to believe it.

She was thoroughly winded by the time she reached her office, and she took her coat off and fixed her ponytail quickly.

There it was.

A single yellow rose, sitting on her desk.

Molly's countenance betrayed some confusion as she went to it and picked it up slowly. No thorns.

She raised it to her nose and sniffed it slightly.

Perhaps…but she would not think of it again.

Instead, she tossed it in the bin and left the room, determined to think of other things…anything…other than the flower.

And she did a fine job.

She did not think of it when a body came in with a gardening shears wound to the head.

Nor did she consider it at lunch, when a birthday party was being held at the other end of the canteen and there were yellow rosettes on the cake. She hardly paid attention to it.

She certainly did not think about it when a certain detective abruptly arrived at the morgue later that evening, Watson in tow, issuing demands and behaving like the right arse he was.

Nothing was said nor admitted on his part.

So Molly, determined to be displeased with him, assumed that he was not responsible for the interlude.

She could be quite impressive when she wanted to be.

But the next day when she arrived, there was another yellow rose for her on her desk.

Another!

What could it mean?

Molly went to it and picked it up suspiciously, and looked for a note. Nothing.

Infuriating man!

After she put the blossom in the bin, she put her lab coat on and left, determined not to go back into the office unless absolutely necessary.

She had made a wonderful success of it.

The following day Molly was off work, so she slept in a bit, as per usual.

She hadn't heard from Sherlock at all since she chucked him from her flat. Unless one counts him barking orders at her yesterday.

She decided not to count that for her sanity's sake.

Molly's feet fell to the floor as she stood up and went to the bathroom. She was not going to play these games with him. It was ridiculous, and she had no idea what he wanted.

Really. What did the wanker want? What _could _he want?

She began to brush her teeth as she went to turn the water on for coffee.

And there it was.

The toothbrush fell as she gasped at the enormous bouquet of yellow roses on her counter.

* * *

"No, John. That simply isn't the problem. If you paid attention, Mrs. Lee had said that her son had boarded the five ten train. If she truly believed that he had bolted, he would have needed to board a much later train."

"I still don't see how that figures into the overreaching picture," John sat in his chair and got his phone out. Two texts from Mary.

"That's why I'm the world famous detective and you're the blogger," Sherlock bit into a biscuit and sat at the computer.

There was the sound of Mrs. Hudson in the hall, and Sherlock looked at the door with a frown. "John…did you hear the bell just now?"

"No. Can't say…"

"Oh Sherlock!" cried Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door to flat "B". "What have you done?"

And Molly Hooper was ascending the stairs just behind her, a scowl on her face. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson," she said with false sweetness in her voice. "I'll manage the rest."

Mrs. Hudson left with a shake of her head at the detective…an imploring look at John.

"Well, Sherlock. John. Nice day. isn't it?" so said Molly Hooper as she closed the door behind her.

Sherlock was rendered quite speechless, looking at her with his mouth slightly agape.

"Molly," John interjected with a nod, feeling the weight in the room. "Ah…shall I put the kettle on?"

"No, I…" began Sherlock.

"That'd be lovely," said Molly with a smile. He left and Molly folded her hands in front of her, her smile still painted on her face, and she lifted her gaze to Sherlock. "I guess you know why I'm here."

His eyes snapped away from her. "Do I?" and he fiddled with some papers on the desk. "I had assumed that we were not on speaking terms."

"Well, I dunno about all that, Sherlock. But at any rate, it would be rather difficult when you keep sending me messages."

"Sending you…?" he looked at her quickly to ascertain her sincerity, saw it to be there…then, "John," and he went to the kitchen. "Thank you so very much for the tea, but Mary surely needs your help with that little person you both care for and I really do need to speak with Miss Hooper without the interference of any other opinions, assumers, or parties not directly affiliated with the situation at hand," he ushered John to the door after procuring his coat. "But do let me know about said person and I will touch base with you later on the Dormer case."

"Sherlock…" began John, but he had the door closed on his face without preamble.

He stood against the door for a minute without looking at Molly, but when he finally did, he saw her to have her arms crossed and a glare on her face. "Well. What were you saying, Molly?" and he left, returning with two cups of tea.

She took the tea with a bit of hesitation, but sipped it all the same.

"Don't you trust me?"

"No," she simply said, then sat on the sofa. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

"What do you mean?" and he sat in his chair at the table, turning to face her.

"What do I mean?" she repeated, incredulous. "What the bloody hell do you think I mean?"

"I…" he squinted at her, and a dozen things went through his mind…she was ill. She was playing a game. She was angry that he hadn't spoken to her since the day in her flat.

But no…none of these, save perhaps the latter…_perhaps_….were viable.

Something else, then.

"Tell me, Molly. What has happened…or indeed, _not_ happened… to incite such obvious scorn?"

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

She looked at him crookedly. It was certainly possible that he hadn't been the one sending the roses…She would feel quite silly if he wasn't. "What do you know about roses, Sherlock?"

Ah…he saw now. Someone had been sending her roses, and she thought it was him.

Hang on…he backtracked…_who_ was sending her flowers? "I know that they carry with them various meanings depending on the color sent."

Molly sat back. "Yellow."

"Ah," and he stood. "Well, yellow is used to symbolize friendship, or a new beginning."

"Exactly."

"And you think that I sent you a yellow rose to celebrate our friendship and the possibility of a new beginning?"

"Not one rose, Sherlock. Two, and a bouquet. Three separate occasions wherein yellow roses were sent to me," she stood now. "Makes sense, doesn't it? Our friendship has been stymied. You have been pursuing something…_more…_by kissing me a few times. A yellow rose is the perfect message sent without saying a thing."

"I'm not romantic, Molly," he said softly. "What makes you think that I would have been so thoughtful as to send you roses?"

Her hands fell to her side. "You're saying that you didn't send them?"

He looked at her and swallowed.

He had been wretched these past days knowing that she was cross with him. He had no idea what he wanted, he only knew that it wasn't _this_. He didn't know how to go about wooing Molly, or indeed, if he could. What's more, he was confused utterly by his feelings for her. He didn't think that he was in any danger…but he could easily imagine a scenario that he was.

He could stop this. Now.

"I did send them."

Molly's face fell, then she smiled. "Look, Sherlock. I know that things have been strained. I know that I got very angry with you…but I just don't know. You're like…poison…like…something so bad for me…"

He took a step nearer her. "I sense a conjunction."

"But," she smiled. "I cannot deny that you are a fascinating person, and I…I've been rather taken with you for some time. And you," she paused dramatically. "Have abused that utterly."

"I have, yes."

Molly rolled her eyes. "No more flowers."

He shook his head slowly, never leaving her face. "No more flowers."

She sighed. "All right then. I suppose that I'll be on my way…and we can…" she swallowed and dropped her gaze. "Can be friends again."

He thought that he should kiss her…

Well, he thought that he wanted to, but resisted. "Are we friends, Molly? Were we?"

"Of course we were, Sherlock. I saved your bloody life, didn't I?"

He laughed, then nodded.

She smiled, then left.

And Sherlock took out his mobile.

_Well played, brother mine._

Send.

* * *

Mycroft put his mobile phone back in his pocket.

Good lord his brother would be lost without him!

Miss Hooper had taken a bit more convincing than he had imagined her to. That was both curious and irritating. He had thought he had her figured as a die hard romantic; gestures and symbols would mean quite a lot to her.

He then supposed that Sherlock had pissed her off too much for an easy reconciliation to take place.

He was not immune to that particular state of mind.

But it was more than that. Molly Hooper was not the silly girl he had supposed her to be. She was much more impressive with her logic than he had imagined.

He sat back in his massive leather seat and decided to call on his brother. He really loathed to text.

His umbrella twirling in his hand, Mycroft had decided to walk instead of using the car. It was a fine enough day, and so few times was he afforded the opportunity to enjoy the fresh air, he thought he might as well than not.

He rang the bell, and waited as Mrs. Hudson answered.

Up he went, and he found his little brother in front of the laptop, the only source of light in the room.

Mycroft sat at the table across from Sherlock.

"Fond of flowers, Mycroft?" he asked, not looking at him.

"Occasionally. They serve a purpose."

"What purpose is that?"

"Groveling."

And now Sherlock snapped the laptop shut and looked at him. "You have nothing to grovel over."

"You do," he nodded.

"Do I?"

"As far as Miss Hooper was concerned."

"Why are you doing this, Mycroft? What is in it for you?"

"Nothing much, save some satisfaction."

"What would be so satisfying in seeing me romantically linked to a pathologist?"

He looked at him, then his eyes fell to the floor. "Difficult to say, really. Call it a protective sibling's desire to see their brother happy."

"Rubbish," Sherlock stood. "You don't give a damn about my happiness."

"A shade more than you do, I'd venture," he snapped, glaring.

"Mycroft, surely there are more pressing things for you to attend to than this business."

He stood, fixing his coat. "Was she pleased?"

He narrowed his eyes. "She was suspicious, but ultimately, yes. I'd say that she liked the roses."

"Excellent."

"Are you going to stop this silliness now, Mycroft?"

"Never," he smiled, reaching the door. "I'm having ever so much fun."

"Will you at least tell me the next time you decide to do this type of thing?" Sherlock was exasperated.

"Mm…I'll consider it," and he left.

"Prat."

And he opened the laptop once more.


	9. Chapter 9

In any event, it wasn't so much that Sherlock was giving her attention. Well, maybe it was.

Ok it was.

…but it was a feeling of enormous vindication she was experiencing that was truly wonderful. She had given into him and that had been humiliating, but now…now she felt as though she had been right all along. She had been attracted to, and falling in love with, a man who could reciprocate. He only needed a push.

She smiled.

"Miss Hooper, isn't it?" came a voice net to her.

"Oh!" she turned, shocked out of her reverie. "Yes…" she looked at the man curiously. "Hello, Mycroft," she mumbled, then went to pay for her latte.

"I take it that you are less than pleased to see me," he replied, sipping his own drink. "No matter. I am quite used to it, you see."

"I never said…" she nodded to the cashier.

"No need to. The look upon your face spoke volumes."

Molly blushed as her eyes fell. "Now, come on Mycroft. The last time we spoke was hardly friendly."

He led her to a table. "You have some free time, I trust?" he motioned for her to sit as he himself sat down.

"Some," and she sat, albeit hesitantly.

"Good," Mycroft sat back in his chair, observing her with what Molly felt was a critical eye.

"What?" she smiled.

He gave a sharp intake of breath and folded his hands on his knee as he crossed his legs. "Nothing…I see what Sherlock likes in you."

"Do you?"

"Hm. Yes. You are not what someone who doesn't know him well would consider a possible…" he paused. "…mate, to be indelicate…but you are much like John, so there's that."

"But we aren't involved at all! And it is a bit presumptuous to use the term 'mate.' And how am I at all like John Watson?"

"My dear, you are most certainly involved. Must I spell it out for you?" he cocked a brow.

"We are no such thing, and if you continue…"

His hands went upon surrender. "Very well…your way, then," he sipped. "Tell me, Molly. Who are your favorite authors?"

Molly's face betrayed immense confusion. "Who…?"

"Yes. Favorite authors," and he nodded, encouraging her answer.

And she noted that Mycroft Holmes, while possibly more genteel than Sherlock, was no less odd. "Ah…well…I like Wilkie Collins. I like the Bronte's. Erm…" her eyes went to the ceiling in thought. "Poets, too?"

"Mm. Yes, if you have some."

"Shelley, then. And Mary of Frankenstein fame. Also…I love Tennyson and Blake."

He smiled at her. "We have similar tastes, though I enjoy Wordsworth."

"Meh," she squinted her eyes. "Snob."

"Nor wilt thou then forget, that after many wanderings, many years of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, and this green pastoral landscape, were to me, more dear, both for themselves and for thy sake," he recited. "Hardly pretentious."

"I think it very so. 'Then every man, of every clime, that prays in his distress, prays to the human form divine, Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.'"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Blake," Molly replied. "The hippie's poet," she smiled.

He couldn't help but smile at that. "And are you, as you say, a 'hippie', Miss Hooper?"

"Well…No. Not really. But I like some of the ideas," she sipped.

"I never would have guessed it. Sherlock, falling for a hippie."

Molly laughed. "I'm sure he is steadily on his feet, Mycroft."

He curled a smirk. "I hardly think so," and he downed his drink. "So…on your way there or home, Molly?"

"Home," she said, and stood. "I don't usually stop here on my way back," she said, buttoning her coat. "But I'm actually glad that I did."

"Bad day?" he retrieved his umbrella and opened the door for her.

"Mm…well…a bit. Just busy, you know. And I didn't fancy going home just yet."

"No," he often didn't fancy going home. "Can I drop you, then? It wouldn't be any trouble."

"Oh, no thanks, Mycroft. I like the air," she looked up and breathed deeply. "After being in the basement forever," she smiled and added a little laugh, as was her habit. "Ta," and she walked away.

…he watched her round the corner, then got into the car.

* * *

That night, Mycroft was up, penning a letter.

He hadn't actually penned a letter in some time. It was amusing…

At around two am, he folded it and put it into an envelope, sealed it, and took out his mobile.

_You wrote her a letter. _

Send.

And Mycroft Holmes went to bed.

* * *

"Oh, Meena. He isn't so bad," said Molly, sipping her Guinness.

"I think that I need to start to take a tally of how many times you've said that," and her friend sighed and downed her whiskey sour.

"What? Are you saying that I make excuses for him?"

"Now _why _would I say _that_?" she replied, and got up. "Time for me to get going, Molls. See you on Tuesday?"

"Mm. Tuesday," she replied.

Molly sat at the bar for a bit, thinking about her current situation. It wasn't a happy one, to be sure. She had lingering doubts about Sherlock…and they were hardly involved, anyway.

No. They definitely weren't _involved. _But Molly didn't have a name for what they were…

Casually, mutually interested parties?

Was he interested?

She couldn't say…he hadn't given any indication that he was or wasn't, at least, not verbally. Molly took another long draught of beer.

"Hey, Molls," said Ben, the keep.

"Hi Ben. Long night, then?"

"Bit. What's on your mind? You look down."

"No, not down. Just…" she paused. "Confused."

He wiped the counter and nodded. "I always find, that when I'm confused about something, sleeping on it help enormously."

"I _have_ been sleeping on it, Ben. It doesn't seem to help at all."

"What's the problem? I'm a bar keep. A cheap counsellor," and he gave her another Guinness.

Molly laughed. "Well, there's this bloke…"

"Always is."

She smiled and blushed. "Anyway, he's a touch odd. He doesn't really do relationships, you know? And he…" she paused. No sense in giving him the whole story. "I've fancied him for a while. And recently, he started…kissing…"

"Snogging? Out of the blue?"

"No, not exactly, but it came as a bit of a shock. But I don't think he knows what he wants."

"Do you?"

"Not really…he's hurt me before."

Ben nodded. "Hm. Well, do you like him?"

"Always."

He shrugged. "Then go for it, Molls. At least you'll know."

"Go for it?"

He nodded, then walked away.

Go for it, indeed.

Molly finished her brew and got up to leave. She wouldn't be made a fool of. It simply wouldn't happen again. She would not allow it to.

She made her way back home, hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket, mumbling to herself about the unfair nature of her predicament.

And it wasn't fair! _He_ continued to have control over her, despite her recent attempts to shed that particular annoying habit. No matter what, it seemed as though he would continue to exercise that ridiculous ability and charm her.

Charm her! Molly scowled and let herself into her building.

Charm, indeed.

It was absurd that this was happening. Absurd, hurtful, and embarrassing…

She was just outside of her flat now, and she fumbled with the keys. It was then that she noticed it.

A small envelope on the floor, just outside of her flat.

It read:

**_To Miss Molly Hooper_**

Very grand writing, indeed.

She picked it up and opened it.

_Dear Molly,_

_I am sorry that I have been an unconscionable ass. You deserve better. Indeed, so much more than that. _

_It has long been my desire to explain to you the workings of my mind, and, if you'll allow me, I'd like to confide in you. I am not someone who can easily be moved, not someone who can understand the human heart, but I hope that you might aid me in this. I wish to become more open. More understanding…_

_I know that I don't deserve your attention, but I'd ask for your permission for the chance to offer it._

Molly read it three times over. She then set it down, took her jacket off, and poured herself some wine.

What on earth was she supposed to do with this?

Sleep on it, that's what.

But Molly couldn't sleep…the letter was plaguing her. Surely it was from Sherlock, and what could he mean by it? Ridiculous situations.

She looked at the clock. One forty two am.

Sod it.

She jumped up and pulled her jacker and trainers on…she should call for a cab…

But she ran instead.

She ran all the way to Baker Street, and banged on the front door, not knowing nor caring much of she woke Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh! Molly dear," said landlady remarked in a breath. "Is everything all right?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, it isn't. Might I come in?"

But before she could say a word, Molly had swept passed her and was running up the stairs. She banged the door open with some force, and found Sherlock standing at the window, in his dressing gown, peering down on Baker Street. "Hello Molly."

She had gotten her breath back, but was a bit flummoxed at the scene before her. Her hands fell to her side, and she suddenly didn't feel so irate.

"Cat got your tongue?" and he turned, smiling a bit at her.

Her back was immediately up. "What do you _mean_ by it, Sherlock?"

He walked from the window a bit closer to her, paused, and then walked directly toward her to the door. He clicked it shut and watched her as she backed away from him a touch. He swallowed. "I'm sorry Molly, but you'll need to elaborate."

She sighed heavily. "The letter you sent. I know that we left things rather open ended, but this…"

"Did you not like it?" he shoved his hands inside of his robe.

"That's not the point."

"Oh, but I think that it is."

"Sherlock, why can't you just text me? Isn't that easier?"

He held her gaze, then took a step toward her. "Perhaps it is."

Molly swallowed. "What do you want? You wish to pursue…?"

"Do you?"

"I have no idea," she whispered.

…and indeed, she did not. Part of her was positively drunk with the thought. Part of her was screaming to run run run and get out before it was too late…

"Perhaps we should aid you in making up you mind," and he took her face in his hands, and bent down, kissing her soundly.

Molly squealed…but she lifted her hands to his neck and pulled him toward her…and the kiss lazed on, dexterous and deep, and Molly was overcome.

"Why are you here, Molly?" he asked, nuzzling her neck.

"Because…the letter you wrote…" she breathed, savoring his touch.

"No other reason? It _is_ the middle of the night…"

Molly pulled away, her eyes holding some hurt. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Only that…"

"No. I came here to talk. We need to talk," she backed away.

Sherlock nodded. He had seen what Mycroft had wrote, and while none of it was suggestive, it did paint him as rather a pathetic creature. He had admonished him for it, and added that he needed to take some care. He was not some sap, and he wouldn't be treated as such. "What is there to say. I said that I'd like the opportunity to treat you a bit better. Either you'll grant it or you won't."

She looked at him steadily. "All right. What would you like to know?"

…and Mycroft Holmes fidgeted in the kitchen. He would need to stage an escape soon…though he must admit, he was intrigued by what he overheard.


	10. Chapter 10

He coughed.

"Is someone…?" Molly craned her neck toward the kitchen.

Sherlock let out a sigh. "Just come out, Mycroft," and he stepped away from Molly.

And she looked, watching as Mycroft Holmes appeared out of the shadows. "Apologies. I was just leaving."

Molly looked from brother to brother …"No. I should actually go," she blushed. "It's quite late…"

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "If you like, Molly. I assure you, however, my brother was leaving."

"Indeed. Wouldn't want to infringe on precious time Sherlock has with his…" he paused, eyebrows raised.

"…Pathologist?" Molly supplied with a grin.

Mycroft nodded at her, "As you like," and he grabbed his umbrella, leaving the flat.

Molly watched him leave, then sighed. "He is a taciturn personality," she said reflectively.

"He is a diabetic personality," he replied sardonically, and he took her hand. "Molly…what are you thinking?"

Her eyes fell, and she shook her head. Molly swallowed, not really knowing how to respond. "I'm thinking that I should run," and then she looked at him. "But I'm unable to."

Sherlock nodded. "You should, you know," and he kissed her cheek softly. "But at any rate, I'll call a cab," he dropped her hand and took out his mobile.

Molly looked at him, trying to decipher just what was happening. It made no sense, not in the way she understood Sherlock.

But had she really ever understood him? Had anyone?

Mycroft…he seemed to.

"Cab should be here any minute," he put his phone away and turned toward her. "What?"

"Nothing," she squeaked, and she blushed. Molly swallowed and closed her eyes. "I mean, nothing."

When she opened her eyes again he was nodding slowly. "Sure?"

"Mmhm. Yes. Everything is fine. I'll just head down and wait for the cab, then," she turned away, and began to walk down the stairs.

She couldn't decide if she wanted him to follow her, but it didn't matter, since the cab was pulling up just as she exited 221B…

…so she wouldn't have seen the black car parked across the street as she entered the cab.

But Sherlock did.

* * *

Not much in terms of sleep was to be had that night for Molly Hooper. She couldn't calm herself down enough to effectively rest. She was up bright and early, and left for work.

She was hoping that there would be no Sherlock to distract her that day.

And she was pleasantly surprised that there wasn't.

Four autopsies made for busy hands, and Molly had accomplished enough to warrant a glass of wine that evening. She focused on that approaching event and made it through the cleaning up for the next shift and such.

And she walked home, something she only did on rare occasions.

But Molly had some figuring to do…because she was nervous at Sherlock's bizarre behavior. She was nervous, because, well…he was Sherlock. And he had hurt her before. And she wasn't keen on being hurt again.

She trudged through the streets, head down, hands shoved in pockets. Ordinarily, Molly was quite quick in her step, but not tonight. Tonight she savored the walk, relishing in the exercise…

What did he mean by sending her that note? What could he mean by kissing her and speaking to her softly?

She thought that though in theory she should keep well away, there was no way to actually do that, since she was Molly Hooper, hopelessly smitten with Sherlock Holmes, even more so now that she was seeing a more tender side to him.

She ascended the stairs to her building and fumbled with her keys. Up to her flat she went, sighing heavily.

And there it was.

Another envelope.

She almost didn't pick it up…but she knew what would happen if she didn't…

…so she did.

_Dear Molly,_

_Seeing you last night with your face flush and eager for my attentions was almost unbearable. You have no idea the effect you have on me. How blind I've been these years…to have you, the most perfect creature that ever was, right before my eyes, and me. Blind to you. _

_I do not want for anything, I only wish and hope. It is all I have._

_I wish for you to come to me every evening as you did, hungry for me and desiring only me. I hope that you want me as well, I see your glances, and sometimes think that yes, she does want me._

_But I am an ignorant man. I am selfish, for I think only of myself, and not what I might do for you…to be there when you come home, and rub your feet. Or make you tea. Or sip sweet wine…how much I could do for you…_

_But it is all too much, and I am left hollow, for my behavior has never been such that you would reciprocate still. You are much too clever for that._

_Molly…you face is etched in my soul._

_And I still feel your whisper on my ear…_

_Longing,_

_Sherlock_

And Molly set the paper down, forgetting her wine

…and went to bed.

* * *

Mycroft was sitting at his large desk in his home office. He was looking at the computer screen, though he wasn't seeing much.

He believed he was developing a headache.

A long drawn out sigh escaped his lips, and he sat back.

Ordinarily, Mycroft Holmes would not be distracted thus. He was the epitome of concentration, for he had the same powers of observation as Sherlock, save a bit more refined.

But something about the night previous had harnessed him, and he couldn't account for his distraction.

He had seen displays much more suggestive than what he had witnessed at 221B. In fact, it was rather tame, if he was being honest. Sherlock, while passionate about some things, couldn't seem to harness the desire that so many suffer, and was rather sloppy about the whole thing.

He thought that Molly was a good sport, allowing him to be so unrefined…

…for though there were some things about her which gave him pause (her wardrobe was atrocious, her gait haphazard, and her nerves, raw), there was something indelibly sweet about her.

And his nose crinkled at the word.

Sweet indeed.

Mycroft had no time for "sweet," and he had no desire to want it at all, save the occasional pastry.

Well, bit more than occasional, then.

He shook his head in annoyance and returned to the adjective his mind had just conjured for Molly…

…_sweet._

How irritating that he should be considering her at all.

It must be that he was annoyed that Sherlock had, in fact, won the bet. There was no denying it…the man was able to ensnare a woman, and seemed to be enjoying her affections.

Mycroft stood and went to the window.

Miss Hooper had the next day off. He knew that she often went to the cafe near her flat…

And he would be lying if he said that she held no interest for him. It was a bit more than curious that she, _she_ of all people, could secure the mind of his brother.

He nodded, convincing himself that he would interview Molly Hooper based exclusively on the premise that he wished to understand her a bit more…

…and nothing whatsoever to do with discovering how she liked his letter.

* * *

Molly opened the door to the cafe and noticed that there wasn't many people there. That was odd, for usually the place was full up.

She went and ordered her latte and a muffin, and sat at the table by the window.

She was glad that the sun was out, and that there was plenty of people bustling about. Gave her something to look at.

"May I join you?"

Molly looked up into the face of Mycroft Holmes. "Oh! Um…yes…" and she waved her hand toward the chair opposite her. She watched him as he took off his overcoat and sat across from her. "So…" she began.

"I am sorry, Miss Hooper, for the potentially embarrassing situation I inadvertently caused the other night. I had no idea that you would be visiting my brother."

Molly blushed slightly. "Oh, that's ok. I didn't know I was going to visit him, either," she smiled.

"Quite."

Molly cleared her throat. "So…I've never seen you here…"

"I don't ordinarily frequent cafes…"

"No. Well…that one time…when I yelled at you," she smiled.

"Excepting that instance."

"And now," she observed.

Mycroft nodded. "Tell me, Miss Hooper…"

"Molly."

"Thank you. Molly, tell me, what do you suppose changed Sherlock's mind about you?"

She played with her muffin. "I…I don't know. I mean, I guess I'm a bit different. You know, not so much of a pushover around him…I have started standing up to him. Maybe he likes that?"

He nodded. "Yes, I could see how that might effect his opinion," he paused. "And what of you?"

"Me?" she coughed, and sipped her drink.

"Yes. What brought about your changing opinion of him?"

"I haven't…" she shook her head, confused a bit.

"But you have. He is offering you the attention you craved, and are accepting it willingly."

"Why wouldn't I, considering I've been in love with him most of the time I've known him."

He nodded. "But, it must be off-putting, if only a bit, the way in which he has so suddenly changed his esteem of you," and he sipped.

Her eyes fell. "Well…yes. I see what you're saying. I'm just enjoying it for now."

"You don't expect it to last?"

"Not at all," she replied matter-of-factly.

"Than why…?" his brow furrowed.

"Because, Mycroft, I've been in love with him," Molly sounded a bit exasperated by his question, as though the answer was plainly obvious. "Have you never been in love?"

His mouth curled a smile. "Molly, do you know who I am?"

"Mycroft Holmes."

"And do you know what that means?"

"It…it means…" she swallowed. "Your surname is Holmes…?"

He chuckled. "We are not prone to such things as 'falling in love,' it does not rank high on our lists of priorities."

"But…but…that's so sad! And what about your parents? Weren't they in love?"

He sipped again and put the cup down. "I suppose so, yes. I never thought about it much."

Her mouth hung open.

"Is that shocking?"

"Well, yes. It is," she replied. "You and your brother…you never consider it? Never?"

"Up until very recently, no. But Sherlock was always a bit different from me. I honestly think that he feels _too_ much, and he attempts to reign himself in by switching it off."

Molly nodded. "And what about you?"

"Me?" he smiled. "I am the ice man, as Moriarty termed me. I feel nothing."

She shook her head. "Yes you do. And I'm going to prove it."

* * *

**A/N: Well! It's been just over a year, and I'm back! I cannot apologize enough, but rest assured that I am going to be finishing this, no matter how long it actually takes me.**

**I'm so sorry, and if you're reading this, then thank you for not abandoning this story. I promise that I won't be!**


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